


ribs

by bambilong



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gamora has PTSD, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Starmora, Thanos is his own warning, gamora has nightmares and doesn't want to talk about it, gamora is going through IT, quill is trying his best, rocket is mentioned, shocking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bambilong/pseuds/bambilong
Summary: gamora's been taking care of everyone but herself, gets stressed out, has a nightmare (or two), and then accidentally gets comforted by none other than peter quill.aka: the soft, short, post vol.2 (but pre-IW) comfort fic nobody asked for, ft. nightmares about everyone's favorite purple thumb! yay!





	ribs

**Author's Note:**

> title is based off of the fact that I listened to Ribs by Lorde while writing this.  
> this also happens to be the first writing piece of mine that I'm actually posting like, anywhere, so please be gentle LOL  
> constructive feedback is always welcomed!

When Gamora wakes, she finds herself alone. 

Which, in retrospect, is not an actual shock.

She had _been_ alone, practically the entire day. She successfully avoided anyone and everyone, much to her slight shock and quiet contentment, and had gone to bed alone, too. That was the only thing that might have been slightly different than usual.

On the Quadrant, everyone had their own rooms, which was one of the benefits to staying on it for the time being. It gave everyone their own sense of privacy, and time to get away from each other when the group became… overbearing. Something Rocket had to do, occasionally. Something Nebula had to do _constantly,_ whenever she decided to check in. Except, Gamora hadn’t been staying in the room she had originally picked out.

Gamora had been staying in Peter’s room.

The room still remained hers, as long as she was there, all of her belongings had remained in there, and from time to time she would go in to “clean” it, even though Rocket questioned what exactly the point of that _was_ if she wasn’t going to _stay_ in it. Honestly, she hadn’t had an answer for him.  The point being, she hadn’t ever actually slept in that bed.

That was, until tonight.

She had this overwhelming _need_ to be _alone._ And she had gotten what she wanted, but now she was surely paying for it.

When she woke, she felt like she was choking. Everything felt like it was too much, even the cool metal of the floor had practically scalded her when she slid from the bed. Her vision was blurred, mostly from sleep, and tears she didn’t even know were forming, in spite of her enhancements. She almost wants to let out _laugh_ , bitter as it was, but she can’t even catch her breath long enough to _cry._

She had nightmares before, sure. Almost constantly, up until she found the Guardians. They’d lessened over the years, considerably, but occasionally they’d flare up. Creep up, almost. For someone who had always tried to have some vague sense of control over her life, this was never something she was good at grasping. She had _begged_ for solitude, a moments peace, because the last week had been considerably odd for her, and she felt like perhaps she just needed to be left the fuck _alone_.

Don’t get her wrong, she adored her odd, dysfunctional, poor excuse of a family, but even after months of being with them, she forgets herself. She remembers too often how it felt to be alone, and it’s almost a smothering feeling she gets with them, at the silliest of things.  After the events on Ego, things took a turn. Not for her, but for Peter.

Yondu had _died._ Peter had to _kill_ his own father, the one he so desperately wanted to find, because after killing his _mother,_ Ego turned on his own son.

The guilt sat in her chest for making him go there in the first place.

It had been a month and a half - not that she was counting - since the incident, and she found herself almost constantly trying to find ways to comfort him. He insisted she didn’t need to, that he would be fine, and a part of her brain nagged at her that he was probably right, but she felt responsible for him. For… everyone, really. Peter called it a 'mother hen instinct,' and she slapped his arm for it. 

In spite of - or maybe _because of_ the “unspoken thing”, she just wanted him to be happy, to smile. Which he had been, lately, so that slightly eased the annoyance she had felt lately. The unnecessary annoyance.

She had invested so much time into making sure everyone had what they needed, that they were careful on solo missions, all of that, that she almost entirely forgot about Thanos. Naturally, that's around the time when Nebula made contact to tell her she wanted to make her move on him.

Gamora talked her out of it, as she usually did, because she knew they weren’t _ready,_ and who knows when they ever _would_ be, to take him down, and the last thing she needed was Nebula’s death on her conscience with all the rest.  And maybe _that’s_ what did it, and _that’s_ why she felt the immediate need to distance herself as much as physically (and emotionally) possible, because she didn’t want to admit that she was actually afraid of _losing_ something.

She certainly didn’t want to admit to losing _everything._

So, here she sits, knees to her chest, breathing faster than her lung enhancements can keep up, and digging her nails into herself _so_ deep, she could draw blood if she pressed a centimeter deeper. The dream starts the same way, it often does.

She’s running, though its not really her. Its a version of herself she had to toss to the side a _long_ time ago, it’s -

“ _What’s wrong, little one?”_

His voice cuts through the others screaming.

" _My mother,”_ she attempts, and it’s almost _pathetic_ , “ _where is my mother?”_

“ _Let me help you.”_

A voice is _wailing_ at her, and she realizes its her own. _Don’t be a fool._ ** _Run._**

To her credit, she does. She runs as fast as small legs can carry her, and she almost gets away, almost. He grabs her, which takes very little effort, pulls her back, and she can’t stop hearing someone _screaming._

It takes a second, but then she’s her again, what she is now, and suddenly _nothing_ is about her. 

Instead, she can see the others. Peter, Rocket, Mantis, Drax, Groot, _Nebula._

They’re all dying, they’re dying, he’s _going to kill them,_ and she can never get to them fast enough.

_Everything_ is about her.

_It’s your fault, it’s all your fault._

She wants her brain to shut off entirely.

Instead, she lunges towards him in a fit of pure _rage,_ striking him enough to draw blood. She goes for it again, but when she turns, he’s just… laughing. A very light, almost casual chuckle. It stuns her, she’s _confused,_ and then he takes her by the arm, almost like he knows to take advantage of her confusion, and drags her what looks like the edge of the world, though maybe it’s just the _end_ of hers, because he throws her. Carelessly. Like she’s nothing more than a stone you kick in frustration.

And, god, the _falling_ feels like forever, and she’s _screaming_ the whole way down, and nothings coming to help her, Nebula is gone, Peter’s gone, anyone who _might_ care about her is _gone,_ and then -

She hits the ground.

That’s, usually, when she wakes up. 

She has to gasp for air now, because of course the respiratory enhancements never work when she actually needs them to, but then she hears her door opening, and slightly heavy steps approaching her. She freezes.

That is, until the assailant goes to rest a hand on her shoulder, a featherlight touch that she barely feels, and then -

“Ga - hey!”

She’s on them in a flash, knocking them down with a heavy thump and pinning them with the better half of her weight and a knee against their throat. Her vision clears, tears forgotten, and her jaw is locked in a way that would probably hurt someone other than her. She wants to reach under her bed for her sword, nearly does, but then -

“I’m gettin’ a lot of déjà-vu right now,” the voice underneath her, undoubtedly belonging to Peter Quill, rasps.

Her panic, anger, whatever it was, subsides, and her face quirks into something that she sure looks confused as she removes her kneecap from his throat.

“Who?” she questions.

He pauses, and now he’s matching her confused expression. “Wait, what?”

“Who is… deeja-voo?”

Then he laughs. It’s the most genuine laugh of his she’s heard since Ego. She just nearly killed him by crushing his windpipe with her bare leg, and now he’s laughing. She feels her eyes involuntarily roll at the thought, and climbs off of him and back onto the bed, the unsettling feeling starting to wash over her once again. He sits up not three beats after she does, his laugh dying out quietly. She becomes so acutely aware of the fact that he’s even there, every time he shifts she can hear the way that his clothes shift with him, those stupid sweatpants he often wears when he’s wandering the halls in the middle of the night making a rather annoying sound. She thinks her ear might _twitch_ , she cant tell.

He’s uncharacteristically silent, she barely even hears him breathing, and he’s moving to sit in the bed alongside her. She can feel the way that it dips to accommodate him. She should say something, shouldn’t she? Like, _I apologize for trying to murder you, I had a childlike nightmare and thought you were my adoptive father, coming to kidnap me, again, for the fun of it._ Or, better yet, _did I wake you up by practically wailing_ because _of said childish nightmare?_

Instead, she says nothing, opting for staring blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room, mostly because she can't stand the thought of caring eyes staring back at her at the moment. Because that makes sense. He speaks first, naturally.

“You look…” he trails off, only because he’s _actually_ looking at her.

“I know.” she responds, flatly.

“What happened?” he starts, his tone shifting into one of what she can best guess is concern. 

“It - nothing. It’s nothing.” she’s reaching up to herself, now, brushing her hair back a bit. She’s… fidgeting, it looks like. That’s rather _annoying._

“It’s not _nothing,_ Gamora. You’ve been avoiding everyone. You were on the _floor_ when I came in here, looking like some sort of kicked puppy -“

She _does_ look at him then, her eyes narrowing, which almost immediately stops his speech. His head tilts, barely a centimeter, but she notices. Of course she does.

“…What?”

“Who would kick a puppy?” she all but demands, silver brows drawing together.

“ _What?_ Oh, Christ, no, it’s just an expression, ‘Mora, look,” he sighs, reaching out to take her hands in his. It's an impulsive move. He knows it, she knows it, and she’s absolutely _rigid._

She can’t look him in the eye anymore, and instead fixates her gaze on his hands. It’s grounding, almost, the feeling of his hands over her own, it gives her something to focus on. His hands are slightly rough, compared to her own, a few scabbed over cuts littering the skin, fingertips calloused, but they’re also soft. Warm, really warm actually, had she always been this _cold?_

He called her name again, and she has to _force_ herself to look at him, and. Oh.

She doesn’t exactly know what a kicked puppy would look like, never intends to find out, but she imagines it’d look a lot like that.

His gaze is soft, pleading almost, like he wants to beg her to say _something,_ but doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to push for it. The space under his eyes is slightly darkened, his hair is a mess, and he hasn’t shaved in - if she had to hazard a guess - a week. Or two. Probably two.

“…Tell me what’s wrong?” he tries, again, when her gaze doesn’t shift. She outright closes her eyes at it, grasping at one last attempt to not let him see her _cry._

_How do you tell the person you love that you’ve seen them die, countless times, in your dreams?_

You don’t, evidently. “I… don’t want to talk about it.”

A sigh leaves him. “‘Mora -“

_“Please.”_ her voice is rough, to her own ears, almost making her recoil at the sound, and it gains her some sort of sharp intake of breath from him. “I really, _really,_ don’t want to discuss it.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and stares down at their hands. She practically twisted her fingers into the spaces between his own, tangling them like some sort of odd rope. He squeezes them. Trying. 

“Alright,” he says, his voice softened from its previous tone. “I’m sor -“

“No.” she cuts him off, quickly. “It’s… it’s not you.” Her head drops again, and she swallows. He hasn’t let go of her hands since he grabbed hold of them. He says nothing, for what feels like a minute. Staring at her. Which, isn’t unusual, but it seems like he’s thinking, and that’s a bit -

“Come on,” he suddenly blurts out, standing. Still… holding onto her hands.

She’s confused. “Where are we going?”

“Back to my room,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “you should - I mean, it’s more comfortable in there, no offense, and the beds bigger, and you shouldn’t be -“ he stops, looking over her face again.  _You shouldn’t be alone._ There’s something else, though, something he wants to say, but doesn’t. It’s itching at her, something she can’t quite reach. He -

“I’ll carry you,” he interrupts her thoughts, with that _dumb_ grin on his face.

She scoffs. “I can walk just fine, thank you.”

“Then _get up.”_ and before she can even come up with an argument, he’s tugging her up to her feet, and practically drags her through the doorway, before walking a few paces in front of her. He let go of her hand to do so. He turns back to look at her then, his dopey grin melting into something more gentle, more sincere. Something that’s not demanding, not begging, not… anything other than reassuring. He’s giving her the opportunity to back out. To go back into her room and forget about it. The decision to go to his room, instead, was the quickest decision she’s ever had to make.

It’s not that far away, takes them about a minute, and the weight that was lifted off her chest once she enters is immeasurable. She immediately finds herself crawling into her usual space, curling herself up into the comforting expanse of their - _his_ \- mattress, and him following her in suit. There’s a moment of uncertainty, on her part.

When she had spent time in this room, comforting him, he would sort of just… hold her to his chest. Or ask her to hold him, whichever he was feeling at that particular moment, but this wasn’t… her comforting him. This was him dragging her out of her own bed in the middle of the night, because _she_ needed comforting that she would _never_ ask for. What if -

“‘Mora…?” his voice was quiet.

“…yes?”

“Can I, I mean, do you _want_ me to -“

“Yes.”

And that settled it.

He’s gathering her up in an instant, arms curling around her in almost a protective manner, and drawing her into his chest. She laid her head against him, just below his collarbone, and thanks to her enhanced hearing, could very vividly hear his heart beating. It’s comforting. _Grounding._

Then, he’s laughing.

She has to stop herself from groaning as she peers up at him. “What is it now?”

“I just…” then he looks down at her, and stops his absurd giggling, and shaking his head. “Okay, it’s not _really_ funny, I just thought when I went into your room you were gonna hit my head with a shoe, or somethin’, but -“ he trails off, resting his head back against his own pillow.

“…What _did_ you go into my room for?” she wondered, even though it didn’t even occur to her until then.

“…I… couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, almost like he was embarrassed by the fact, “I’m just… _used_ to you being in here, I guess, an’ I thought you were _mad_ at me, ‘cause you’ve been mad all week at some… unknown… thing, and I guess I just -“

“I’m sorry.” she gets out, her chest tightening for some unfathomable reason.

“Wait, no, that’s not -“ he sighs, shaking his head as he rubs his hand over his own, sleep deprived face. “I just _missed_ you, ‘Mora, that’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

She blinks, looking up at him with an expression that’s entirely unreadable. “Oh.”

“…yeah, I guess, uh, goodnig -“

“I had a nightmare.” she admits, on an impulse.

“…You - what?” 

“It - I don’t want to… _talk_ about it, I just…” she inhaled shakily, her fingers curling ever so slightly into his shirt. “It happens sometimes when I think about _him.”_

Peter was deathly silent. He knew exactly what she was talking about, with Thanos, and knew that Nebula had contacted her just to talk about _killing_ Thanos, which had probably stressed her out, but he never thought -

“I just don’t know if I’m going to have one again,” she mumbled.

“… It’s okay if you do,” he offered. "You're allowed to let  _someone_ take care of you..." then, because he's well aware that there's not much he can say that would make her believe that, onlythat he can do his best to  _show_ her that, and tonight is not the night for it, he regains that stupid smile she's always complaining about (but never seriously), "besides," he starts. "I'll protect you."

It’s meant to be lighthearted, and it comes off that way, but he’s entirely serious, probably dangerously so. There’s absolutely no end to the list of things he would do for Gamora, and she’s fully aware.

“You can’t _protect_ me from a _dream -“_

“Shh,” he even has the audacity to put his finger over her lips. “Let me be Star-Lord.” She quirks a brow at him, and he’s grinning at her crookedly, but she can tell he’s falling asleep, and she’s partially behind him.

Though it wasn’t _much,_ it was _something._ His grip on her reminded her that she wasn’t going back to Thanos, that this was her home now, and should anything happen to any of them, they could work through it. Fix it, somehow. They were all broken people, good at seeking out, and fixing, broken things. That was part of being a Guardian.

Maybe it wasn’t _much,_ but it was more than _enough._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! :D


End file.
